


The Akielon Gardens

by thishasnomeaning



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Master/Slave, Post-Canon, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasnomeaning/pseuds/thishasnomeaning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Torveld’s dreams Erasmus was a free man and they were not master and slave but lovers. Erasmus was intelligent, creative and empathetic. He would have made a great advisor to the king or a praised and famous poet. Instead he had been made into a work of art, a source of pleasure. A tool. A very elaborate tool, a masterpiece even, but still a tool. This slave was made to please, this slave was made for a master, this slave was made for his master’s pleasure. Whenever Erasmus formulated it this way Torveld felt sick. Whoever had made Erasmus into a slave had not only created a work of art, they had also broken a man beyond repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Akielon Gardens

A visitor to the palast of Bazal is likely to be drawn to the grand mausoleum erected in memory of King Torgeir. With its huge marble columns, lavish mosaics adorned with gemstones and gold, alongside sculptures of all the heroes of the past, it never fails to impress the sight-seer.

Despite being tantamount to the mausoleum in their beauty (if not exceeding it), the Akielon Gardens of Bazar are far less often visited. Hidden in interconnected yards and enclosed by high walls without any windows and only a single gate, they are sheltered from view. One wouldn’t suspect that here, amidst magnolia and chamomile, under the apricot trees, a grave is to be found. And yet, there is an inscription in one of the many painted walls:

 

_Here lies Torveld, Brother to his Highness, the late King Torgeir and Ambassador to Vere. May his path be always blessed._

There is no word of the other man who also lies here, no stone to indicate the position of a second grave. This was not intended as a sign of disrespect. Torveld always wanted the name to be displayed along his own, with letters equal in size and decoration:

 

_Here lies Erasmus. May he be free._

 

Erasmus wouldn’t have seen that as praise but as public humiliation. He was made for a master. Not for his name to survive his death. Not to be free.

Knowing this, Torveld decided against giving orders to put Erasmus’ name there it belonged.

 

*

 

Torveld was a man who fell in love. Often, and hard. He never enjoyed brothels or collecting a harem of slaves. If he decided to go to bed with a man (it were always men) that was because he desired that man in particular.

 

Not this time. While his heart longed for the attention of the prince of Vere (that he would never get, the boy was rumored to be celibate and, given his looks, he must have had more attractive suitors than a man already slightly past his prime), his eyes fell on another boy with locks the colour of honey and a slight resemblance to the prince.

 

*

 

It was in the early hours of the morning when Torveld returned from a too long, too strenuous meeting to his chambers, and – more importantly – to his newly gained slave. He had told Erasmus to wait for him in his chambers, to end the day with some cuddling and kissing. Now that he was so late Torveld expected Erasmus to be asleep.

Erasmus wasn’t sleeping. He knelt on the floor, in the obedient position of Akielon slaves: on his knees, forehead to the ground, arms stretched out.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” Erasmus blushed. “This slave was waiting for your highness.” Torveld raised an eyebrow. “Since when are you waiting in that position? It must hurt.” “Since your highness gave order to wait. It is not a problem. This slave was trained to stay in position for longer hours.” Erasmus was wrong. It _was_ a problem. While Torveld appreciated the gesture, some of the overtly stylized submission performances of the Akielon slaves felt just strange to him. Superfluous, even. Especially if they hurt the slave. He told Erasmus to get up and to join him on the bed. “If I say ‘Wait for me’ I don’t mean ‘wait for me in that position.’ I mean ‘Wait for me in my room and make yourself comfortable.’” “This slave wasn’t uncomfortable.” Torveld sighed. “I see I need to give you more direct orders. Next time, I want you to curl up in my bed and warm it for me. Would you please hand me the massaging oil now? It’s a small green bottle in the chest over there.” Erasmus’ body tensed up somewhat. “Do you wish to spend your first night with this slave now?” “I want to give you a massage.” Erasmus smiled. “You are a very kind master, highness.”

 

*

 

When they arrived in Patras, Torveld didn’t think about Laurent anymore. Instead, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Erasmus. But what intrigued him so much? It wasn’t the golden hair, the slender figure, or the cheerful face. Not only that. It certainly wasn’t the submissive manners. Torveld had always sought relationships with men of comparable rank. He was used to be treated like a member of the royal family. He wasn’t used to the level of devotion Erasmus lavished on him. Complete submission was what other people wanted from Akielon slaves. Akielon slaves were made for that. Still, Torveld wasn’t sure if he liked it.

 

Erasmus was sweet, charming, and attentive. That were good qualities in men, but not qualities Torveld was particularly prone to falling for. But Erasmus was not only sweet, charming, and attentive. He was sweet, charming, and attentive to the point of _perfection_. None of his gestures, no blink of an eye was ever left to chance. The man excelled at what he did. And that was a quality in men Torveld was absolutely hot for.

 

*

 

It was a lazy morning, which was a rare occasion for Torveld. Erasmus had just given him a handjob and now they lay on the bed, naked. Torveld gently took Erasmus’ hand and positioned it on his lover’s own cock. “Don’t you want to touch yourself?” Erasmus stiftened. “That’s not… Slaves don’t do this,” he said. After a short pause he added with noticeable unease: “But if it pleases your highness to watch…”

No. This was wrong. Watching Erasmus masturbate had indeed been Torvelds intention. But he hadn’t known that apparently Akielon slaves didn’t masturbate, meaning that Erasmus had very likely never masturbated before. It felt very, very wrong to him to watch Erasmus doing this for the first time. The experience should belong to Erasmus and not to anyone else.

“No, Erasmus. I don’t want to watch. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it,” Torveld said and released his lover’s hand. Erasmus looked at it as if it had just touched something disgusting.

 

*

 

In the beginning of their relationship, Torveld had liked to call Erasmus ‘sweetheart’, ‘honey’ or ‘darling’. Later, he ceased to do so. This was not out of a lack of affection. It was just that he felt like he had to remind Erasmus of his own name. It was a good name for a good man. Erasmus almost never referred to himself using his name or the word ‘I’. He tried to avoid referring to himself and when he couldn’t he used ‘this slave’.

A ‘sweetheart’ was what Erasmus was supposed to be. What he had been trained to be. What he was exceptionally good at being. But anyone could be a ‘sweetheart’. Only Erasmus was Erasmus. And Torveld wished for him that one day, he would not feel the need to be sweet all the time.

So, whenever he was affectionate with Erasmus, Torveld made a point of saying his name as  often as he could.

 

*

 

Erasmus was playing the kithara. He sang a song in the language of Patras. It was a tale about the brother of a king who was both kind and handsome.

“It’s a beautiful song. Who wrote it?” Erasmus blushed. “This song was inspired by your highness.” Torveld felt as if his heart was melting. He gave Erasmus a tight hug and several kisses. “I had no idea you’re a poet and composer. That’s… You’re a genius. Thank you so much for this.” Erasmus fell to his knees and kissed Torveld’s feet. “All praise shall belong to the master of this slave.”

 

*

 

In Torveld’s dreams Erasmus was a free man and they were not master and slave but lovers. Erasmus was intelligent, creative and empathetic. He would have made a great advisor to the king or a praised and famous poet. Instead he had been made into a work of art, a source of pleasure. A tool. A very elaborate tool, a masterpiece even, but still a tool. _This slave was made to please, this slave was made for a master, this slave was made for his master’s pleasure_. Whenever Erasmus formulated it this way Torveld felt sick. Whoever had made Erasmus into a slave had not only created a work of art, they had also broken a man beyond repair.

 

*

 

Torveld would have liked to call Erasmus ‘my love’. He didn’t do it. It wasn’t because he didn’t love him. He loved Erasmus with all his heart The problem was that he couldn’t tell if Erasmus loved him. Or if he would if he had a choice not to. That Erasmus enjoyed his company, that he enjoyed being intimate with him – that was apparent. But love? That was a different question. Torveld didn’t want to force this type of relationship on Erasmus. And sadly, there was no way to confess his love to Erasmus without forcing him to reciprocate.

 

*

 

Torveld and Erasmus had spent almost a year abroad. In the meantime the palast in Bazal had been renovated. Some of the walls and roofs had been in need of repair. Some work had to be done regurlarly. Torgeir, the king, had wanted some changes. But the most striking addition to the palace was initiated by Torveld: a series of interconnected gardens in the Akielon style, some of them resembling the gardens of Nereus, expertly hidden within the walls of the palace. It featured trees and flowers naïve to Akielon, among which beautiful, yet unobtrusive mosaics, sculptures and water basins were carefully placed. In every garden, a bench was positioned at the place with the best view. The walls were painted with landscapes resembling Ios and the neighboring region. In the distance, the shores of Ishima could be spotted. The single door that led to the gardens was situated in Erasmus’ rooms.

When they returned to Bazal, Torveld blindfolded Erasmus and led him to the bench in the biggest garden. From here, the view resembled almost exactly the one from there the Akielon palace slaves were trained. The walls were painted with a night scene, showing stars and the moon and the first light of a new morning. Torveld carefully removed Erasmus’ blindfold. “These,” he said, “are your gardens.”

Erasmus was beaming with joy. He desperately tried not to show too much of his emotion, since that would be indecorous of a slave. He failed. Torveld saw Erasmus’ eyes fill with tears. Then, Erasmus didn’t fall in one of his positions of submission.

Instead he pressed his cheek to Torveld’s cheek. “Thank you, Torveld,” he said. And then he proceeded to stare at the gardens in awe.

It was perfect. Only Kallias was missing.

Torveld couldn’t decide what to make of Erasmus’ reaction. It was strange, given the shere number of times he had taken Erasmus to bed, but the brief meeting of their cheeks felt like the most intimate touch he ever shared with Erasmus.

And yet – in a corner of his heart, Torveld had hoped that Erasmus wouldn’t like the gardens so much. They were the most beautiful prison he had ever seen.

 

“I’ve told my brother to end slave training in Patras,” Torveld told Erasmus. The slave was puzzled. “Why?” he asked.

 

*

 

No one could say who the gold cuffs and collar that were found in a distant corner of the King’s armory belonged too and why they weren’t buried with the slave who wore them, as had been the custom, so that the slave could serve their master in the afterlife. Perhaps the slave had fallen in disgrace. It didn’t matter to the goldsmith. He melted the cuffs and the collar. The gold was needed for a crown.


End file.
